


A Study in Fears

by scyphozoa



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aiming for a balance of fluff and horror, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Archivist!compulsion, Archivist!lock, Awkward Flirting, Awkward dinner conversations, BAMF!John, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dreamsharing, First Meetings, M/M, Magnus!verse, Miscommunication, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, TMA canon-typical body horror, The Flesh - Freeform, The Lonely - Freeform, Uh-oh it's Captain Watson, Updates on Saturdays (god willing and the crick don't rise), basically fear entity bingo, boundary violations, carbs and caffeine make everything better, implied cannibalism (kind of), ptsd mention, spoilers for MAG115 “Taking Stock”, the Hunt (mention), the vast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18840082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scyphozoa/pseuds/scyphozoa
Summary: An answer to the burning question "What ifA Study in Pinkhappened in the world ofThe Magnus Archives?" that maybe only I was asking.Sherlock Holmes is Head Archivist for the Magnus Institute. John Watson makes a statement.Come for the eldritch horror, stay for the fluff and snark!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in any(!) fandom. The thought of Sherlock in the Magnus!verse was just too compelling to stay in my head.
> 
> This story has been neither beta'd nor Brit-picked. I obviously did a lot of handwaving around the set-dressing (British military presence in Afghanistan, field surgery, etc). No claims of accuracy here! but do feel free to let me know if I've made any glaring mistakes or grating syntax errors.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You…you found out you were completely alone in the world and you took a _nap?_ ”
> 
> “Yep,” John grins. “It was a good one, too. My bunkmates were champion snorers and with them gone, I slept better than I had in months. No nightmares, either.”

“John, I'm not a mind reader. Therapy only works if you _talk_ to me.” Ella’s tone is gentle but insistent, like the rain that's beginning to speckle her office windows. 

His hands clench. “I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, I mean, God knows I _don’t_ want to, but…no one else should have to be—exposed.”

“It sounds like a disease,” Ella observes.

“It does feel that way, a bit. It’s killing me, all right." He unconsciously rolls his shoulder. "Finishing the job the bullet started."

“You know I work with other veterans. Your experience—”

“—Isn’t the kind you’ve heard before." John looks to the window, to the rainy world beyond, tries once again to find the right words.

"It was— _spooky_ sounds like such a harmless sort of fear, doesn’t it? But the fear of death, of my friends dying, _that_ I could handle, could understand. This was a fear that I couldn’t—can’t—get a grip on. It’s like nothing that was made to exist in this world."

“Let me make sure I understand,” Ella says slowly. “You think talking about this thing will make you feel better...but you don't want to 'expose' anyone else to it. But you can't just, I don't know, write it down?”

“That's about the shape of it,” John agrees. His mouth twists. “I’m aware it doesn't make a lot of sense. This thing... _wants_ to be shared. But as long as it's inside of me, it can't hurt anyone else.” He huffs a humourless laugh. "A soldier until the very end, apparently."

“But it's hurting _you_.” It’s not a question.

“God, yes. I'd take just about any standard-issue PTSD flashback over this…spooky nonsense. Even if I _could_ talk about it…” He shrugs. “I’m not looking to get sectioned.”

He sees an idea forming behind Ella's eyes and hopes he hasn't already said too much.

“So,” she says slowly, “what happened to you didn't feel natural?”

He barks a laugh. “You could say that.”

She seems to make up her mind about something and scribbles on her notepad. She tears off the sheet and hands it to him.

“There's a place here in London where people can go, er, make a statement about this sort of thing. I've had a couple of clients who told me it helped.”

He reads the name off the paper. “The Magnus Institute? But that’s…”

“I know they don't have the most scientifically rigorous reputation,” she admits. “But they're the only place I know of that deals with this sort of thing, and they're not far away. If you're afraid of somehow…hurting someone with your story, this lot has probably heard it all before.”

He looks up from the paper. “Do you actually believe I could have had,” he grimaces, “a supernatural experience?”

“I believe that _you_ believe that, and taking it seriously may help put it to bed so you can move on with your life.”

“What life?” he says bitterly. “I’m not exactly living for a lot these days.”

“Well, if you're able to finally get some sleep and go two days without having a panic attack, you just might find something to live for. Just try it. You can always come back next week and tell me what a rubbish therapist I am.”

“I’ll think about it.”

———

Limping up to the entrance of the Magnus Institute, John reflects that he hadn't expected something quite so… _respectable_ looking from a paranormal research institute _._ He had been picturing a run-down storefront with crystals in the window. Instead, he's facing an elegant limestone edifice in Westminster. There's a bronze plaque near the door that reads _"The Magnus Institute, London. Founded 1818."_ It's not the most imposing building on the street, but there's nothing seedy about it. Maybe this wasn't such a terrible idea after all.

Before he can second-guess himself any further, John pushes open the door and approaches the reception desk.

"Er, hello," he says to the heavyset man sitting there. He suddenly realises he had no idea what to say next. “I’m…here to tell someone…something."

The man purses his jowls. "I'm sorry?"

"No, I'm sorry, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to... I'm here to talk about something that happened to me." _Oh God, this_ ** _was_** _a terrible idea._ "Something…you know…weird." He gestures vaguely and wishes he could sink into the ground.

The man's face lights up with understanding. "Ah, you'll be wanting the Archives then. It's in the basement. Lift's down that hall. Find Molly—her desk’s near the front—and tell her you want to make a statement."

"Thanks very much,” —he glances down at the nameplate on the desk—“Mike."

———

The brass lift doors open onto an area that is...not quite as impressive as the entry hall. The main Archive is just as large, but significantly more worn-looking. Scuffed wooden floors instead of marble, painted walls instead of paneling. Shelves and cabinets stretch off into the distance, fairly reeking of academia and tight budgets. At a glance John can tell this is a place for Getting Things Done, not impressing visitors.

John steps out of the lift and almost collides with a brown-haired woman carrying two mugs, which she just avoids spilling all over them both. “Oh, sorry!" she exclaims. "Are you...can I help you?"

"I—Mike upstairs told me to ask for Molly. I'd...like to make a statement, I suppose."

"Of course! Right this way. D'you want a cup of tea? Helps with the nerves sometimes, I'm told."

Now that he’s actually about to do this, face his fear and hopefully leave this mess behind, John feels oddly calm. He shouldn't be surprised, he supposes—he's always found it easier to focus under pressure.

Perhaps that was why he felt so directionless now, with no one to stitch up or shoot at. _Save it for therapy, Watson,_ he tells himself, and then says aloud, "Ta, but I'm fine, really."

"All right then, let me just set these down." She puts the tea mugs on the front desk and leads him down a hall lined with several doors. Most of them are ordinary office doors that have signs like “Employee Lounge” or “Storage Room.”

One door on the left wouldn’t look out of place in a bank vault, bigger than the others and apparently made of steel. That one, according to the sign, is Artefact Storage. There’s a small keypad next to it and John wonders what kind of artefacts need such stringent security.

“Here we are,” Molly chirps, interrupting this train of thought. She opens a door labeled “Statement Room” and brings him into a small room containing a desk and a chair. The desk has an elderly laptop on it, along with several sheets of paper and a couple of badly-chewed biros. Apparently all the Institute's money is allocated elsewhere. Maybe behind that steel blast door out in the hall.

"You can make your statement in a couple of ways," she explains, gesturing to the desk. "You can write it longhand, type it out—here," she hits a key and a digital form appears onscreen, "or you can click this red button and do an audio recording if you'd rather.”

She clicks the button and says, "See these bars here? They move when you talk so you know it's working. Every once in a while it gets a bit glitchy, so let me know if you run into any trouble." She pauses the recording and moves towards the door, tour over. "Take as long as you need and come find me when you've finished."

"Thanks. And—“ his throat feels dry. "Someone here will read it?"

She pauses, her hand on the knob. "Yes, or listen to it, and we'll do any follow-up we can. Not that there's always much that can be done..." she trails off. "Anyway, I'll leave you to it." And with a flutter of white lab coat and a soft click of the door closing, John is alone.

He takes a seat—at least the chair is comfortable—and contemplates his options. He doesn’t fit many doctor stereotypes, but his handwriting _is_ terrible. Getting shot hasn’t helped either, has it? His two-fingered typing is abysmally slow and even though Molly had told him to take his time, he isn't keen on getting shooed out at closing time. That left the recording option.

He studies the red button on the screen. _Somehow_ , he thought with a flicker of disappointment, _I thought I'd be talking to a person, not a computer. Well, best get on with it._ He clicks the button.

"My name is Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth—hang on."

The bars that had jumped in response to Molly's voice are still and flat as he speaks. When he pauses the recording and scrolls back to give it a listen, there’s nothing there but the sound of faint static.

 _All right, then_. Slow is better than nothing. He clicks over to the digital form and starts typing his name in the proper field.

It doesn’t work.

John is no Luddite, but he’s not that comfortable with technology, either. He can email and text and watch the cat videos Harry won't stop sending him, but most troubleshooting is beyond him. He'd even recently gotten into a blazing row with a chip and pin machine. He’s been avoiding that particular Tesco's out of embarrassment ever since, even though it's just around the corner from his bedsit.

The funny thing is that the computer isn’t frozen. He can bring up the recorder again - still not working - and click anywhere he wants in the document, but the blinking cursor fails to respond to any of his keystrokes.

Right. John picks up one of the biros and scribbles experimentally on the corner of the paper in front of him, next to the _Magnus Institute_ letterhead.

It’s dry. As are the two others he tries. He pulls open a drawer and finds a stubby pencil, which breaks in half as soon as it touches the paper.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Molly had been pleasant, but clearly had things to be getting on with. Still, he’s so close. And he would risk more than being a bother to end the nightmares. He stumps his way back to the front desk.

Molly seems unsurprised by his report. "It's all right, really," she tells him. "These things happen here more than you'd think. Let me just see if Sherlock's free."

She lifts the desk phone and punched in a number. "Hi hi!" she says brightly. "It's Molly. I—yes. Yes, that's right. I'll bring him down."

“Was he..expecting me?” John asks. “He seemed to know why you were calling right away.”

“Yes, he does that,” she says. “It’s…well, you’ll understand after you meet him.”

Molly leads him back down the hallway, stopping this time at a door with a nameplate reading "Sherlock Holmes, Head Archivist." She taps lightly on the door and pushes it open, ushering John inside.

This room is bigger than the statement room, and far stranger. There are the expected books and files, of course, but there are also several Petri dishes of mold in various stages of outgrowing their homes, and a cow skull on the wall, and a stack of envelopes tacked to a shelf with an ornate knife. Was that a real human skull next to it?

Several meticulously detailed anatomical drawings catch his eye and he notices a small “SH” on the corner of each. The walls are papered in a busy black and white Victorian motif that make him feel a bit claustrophobic.

As he takes in the room, he notices its occupant observing him with equal interest. Before John can introduce himself, the other man asks, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

“I—what? How did you—?”

John has been though a multitude of terrible and awe-inspiring and strange and (yes) spooky things in his almost 40 years on earth, and none of them make him feel the way he does while this man deduces his entire identity, from his relationship with Harry down to the damn psychosomatic limp.

He feels dizzy and light headed and _seen_. He feels like a bug under a magnifying glass. Maybe that should bother him, but he had felt near-invisible since coming back to London. People either look right past him, or (like his therapist) ask him about things he doesn’t have words for. It’s strangely comforting to have his backstory read off without having to _say_ anything for once.

"Sherlock, don't scare him off before he has a chance to make his statement," Molly says, fond tone undermining the scolding words.

"Oh, Molly. You're still here?" Unsettling pale eyes turn her way. "You're not scared, are you..." he pauses.

"John. John Watson," he supplies. "And, no. I'm not scared."

"See, John's fine," says Sherlock. "I need that autopsy report on the university students later this afternoon, you know the one." A clear dismissal.

Molly looks hurt, but quickly covers it with a pained smile. "You got it, boss," she says, and leaves them alone.

 _You may see a lot, but you don't see everything,_ thinks John. He knows an office crush when he sees one.

Not that he can blame her. Sherlock is actually quite fit, in a gangly, posh sort of way. His suit is clearly tailored to fit his long frame and his dark curls have that tousled look that appears effortless and (John knows from past experience with a particularly image-conscious flatmate) take quite a bit of time, effort, and product. His angular face isn’t conventionally handsome, but it’s _interesting_ and alive with intelligence.

Not that it matters what he looks like. All that matters is whether he can _help_. But if John is going to continue his descent into paranoia and madness, he’s damn well going to enjoy the small pleasures he can along the way.

Sherlock comes around to the front of his desk and reseats himself in a modern-looking armchair of tubular steel and black leather. He gestures to the chair opposite, an overstuffed red affair that seems made to support John perfectly. He lets out a small involuntary groan of comfort as he sinks into its welcoming cushions.

Before he says anything about himself, John decides, he wants to know more about this strange genius with the posh accent and penetrating gaze.

“So…do you have to be psychic to work here? Or...maybe working here _makes_ you psychic?”

Sherlock wrinkles his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“All that stuff you knew about me. Does that…come with the job, or what?”

He makes a scornful noise. “Nothing paranormal about that. I observe and make deductions based on my observations. Anyone could learn to do it, but no one bothers.”

“I don’t understand. How could you know those things about me just by looking?”

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But as you entered the room, you particularly fixated on the anatomy prints and skull—yes, it is real. So Army doctor—obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq.”

That dizziness, like standing on the edge of a precipice, swims over him again. It’s frightening and exhilarating, to have his history so effortlessly plucked out of him. And that it all made a strange kind of sense and was done without any psychic weirdness…

"That was…amazing," John says, realising that the silence has stretched out and Sherlock is now looking at him warily.

He ducks his head, looking surprised and pleased. "That's not what people usually say," he says.

"Why, what do most people say?"

"Piss off."

Their eyes meet and John snorts. Sherlock smirks, the expression at home on his pale, sardonic face.

“I don't suppose you could just—look at me and know what happened," John says with a sigh.

That gets him a sharp look. "I... don't think you'd enjoy that," says Sherlock. "Most people don't." He pauses and John can’t tell if he’s joking. "You don't seem like most people, though." A sidelong glance.

"You could be right about that." _Fuck it, I **will** ask him to dinner once this is over_, John decides. Maybe the road to hell could be paved with something good besides intentions.

A knock on the door makes them both start, and John is jarred into remembering the existence of other people. "No," Sherlock says loudly to the door.

"I, I brought some tea," comes Molly's voice. Sherlock rolls his eyes and is clearly formulating a scathing response when John interjects, "Actually, I wouldn't mind some tea. My throat's a bit dry."

It’s not a lie, and he welcomes the chance to regroup and remember why he’s here. To unburden his soul, that is, not to flirt with ~~apparently psychic~~ devastatingly observant archivists.

"Fine," Sherlock huffs. He raises his voice. "Let's get on with it then, Molly."

Tea dispensed and Molly departed, John blurts, "You should be nicer to her."

Sherlock looks puzzled. "Why?"

"Well, she's nice and seems like a hard worker. And she fancies you, that's clear enough." _What am I even saying? I just met this man and I'm telling him how to run his department._

Sherlock's brow creases in annoyance. "That last is…unfortunate. And I'm not generally known for my pleasantness." _Subject closed._ He raises an eyebrow at John."Shall we?" He glances at the old-fashioned tape recorder sitting on the table between them. Had it always been there? John can’t remember.

He notices that it’s already running. "Have you been recording this whole time?"

Sherlock waves a hand. "Not me, _per se._ Occupational hazard, I'm afraid. Let's begin."

John sighs. "Might as well." He can’t very well stay in this oddly charming office with this oddly charming man forever, after all.

Sherlock's voice takes on on a more formal cadence. "Statement of Dr. John H. Watson, formerly Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, regarding... " he paused and looks expectantly at John.

"Um, my time in Afghanistan."

(It doesn’t occur to John until much later that, despite Sherlock’s deductive skills, there’s no way he could have known John’s rank or regiment without asking. Or his middle initial, for that matter.)

"Statement taken direct from subject on 29th January. Statement begins." He looks at John again.

John opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Try as he might, he still can’t find the words for what happened to him. All this time and effort, and it’s clear he’s wasted everyone’s time. He closes his eyes and clenches his fist in helpless frustration.

A tentative hand touches his, cool and dry. Just for a second. “If I may…” Sherlock pauses. “Sometimes it helps if I ask.”

“Please.”

**“When did it start? What happened?”**

Something sparks in the back of John's mind and just like that, the words are there.

———

“I’d been abroad for about a year the first time something…weird happened. I was stationed in Kandahar, and the first few months were so chaotic it was all I could to to keep my head. Obviously I’d had training and pulled a few shifts in A&E, but nothing prepares you for the pressure of field surgery. _I’d_ never been in danger while operating before. The dust and the heat and the complete lack of sterility or adequate supplies…it’s a completely different world.

“It took me a bit to find my feet and try not to botch any procedures or die myself. But it didn’t take as long as I thought it would and I found I actually quite liked the pressure. And the danger, if I’m honest. The more dangerous the situation, the quieter and calmer I became on the inside. I didn’t have to be anybody but the one fixing you up. I didn’t have to think about—I didn’t have to think.

“The hard times were when nothing much was happening. Of course I didn’t _want_ to be in combat, but there were times when I almost wished something would happen so I’d have something productive to do." Sherlock grimaces in sympathy at that.

“The first weird thing happened out in the desert one night. I’d been taking walks to clear my head and let go of the day. I know it wasn’t the cleverest idea, taking walks alone in technically hostile territory, but the scans didn’t show any activity and I always made sure to stay in sight of the base.

“That’s the first thing I noticed. You can’t exactly hide an encampment of 300 soldiers and staff, but one night I realised I’d lost it. The base, that is. It was just…gone. All I could see was the desert and the stars, as far as the horizon in every direction. It was beautiful, in a lonely sort of way.

“I thought about going to look for the base, but I realized that if I wandered too far into the desert and it somehow—came back from, from wherever it was, I’d be in worse shape than ever. I wondered if I’d been hit by a mine or a sniper and died without even knowing it. I wondered if this was the afterlife. I hadn’t been an awful person, I remember thinking, but I hadn’t been an angel either. _Maybe this is where you go when they don’t know where else to put you,_ I thought.

“I didn’t know what to do, so I sat down and pulled my jacket closer around me. The desert gets awfully cold at night, you know. That surprises a lot of people. The sand under me was cold too, although it should have still been warm from the day’s heat. But the sun seemed to have set a long time ago and it was quite dark already. It’s funny - the moon had been almost full the night before, but now the sky was empty. Except for the stars.

“Perhaps I should have been scared. I don’t remember feeling much of anything, really. I sat there and I watched the stars turn overhead for I don’t know how long. Longer than the night should have lasted, I think, although I didn’t have any way of keeping track of time. Eventually, I fell asleep. When I woke up, the sun was just coming up and the base was a stone’s throw away. I got a right ear-bashing from my CO, and that was the end of my evening walks. The desert didn’t hold much draw for me after that night, anyway.”

John pauses, lost in memories.

“Statement ends—” Sherlock begins.

“I’m not done,” John interrupts. “D’you have time for more?”

“Go on.” Sherlock leans forward. He's seemed engaged with the story so far, nodding in certain places like he's ticking off mental boxes. But when John says he has more to tell, his expression switches from mild interest to absolute focus.

It would be a bit intimidating for most people to have all that intensity directed at him. _But I’m not most people, am I?_ John thinks giddily. He takes a deep breath and the next piece comes to him, this time without Sherlock’s prompting.

“The next time something happened, I was prepping for an emergency appendectomy. I had my back to the room while I scrubbed in, and it was like…like someone had come and turned down the volume knob on the world.

“I honestly thought I’d gone deaf for a second or two, but then I turned around and…everyone was gone. The room was completely empty. I shouted for the nurse, but there was no answer.

“I resigned myself to having to re-scrub and walked out into the corridor. It was empty as well. I looked through the windows onto the rest of the base and it was like the whole place had been abandoned. We weren’t the largest operation in the area, but there was always _someone_ around. And here it was, the middle of the day and not a soul in sight.

“I hadn’t thought about the, er, _event_ in the desert in a while—when I did think of it, I chalked it up to falling asleep without realizing it and having a weird dream. But this felt…similar. Like I’d somehow stepped into a world next to this one and I was the only one there.

“I walked outside and yelled a bit, but my voice sounded the way it does after a heavy snowfall, all muffled and close. I think you could have fired a gun right next to me and it wouldn’t have made much of a noise. The desert had seemed so, so _vast_ —“

(Sherlock sits up abruptly at this, but doesn’t interrupt.)

“—But this was different. It felt oppressive and empty at the same time, like the emptiness had its own kind of weight? I dunno. And again I wondered if I was dead. _All right, Watson,_ I thought, _maybe the hospital’s been bombed and this is your own private purgatory_. But that didn’t seem right, somehow.”

John reaches for his tea. How long has he been talking? Time seems to move differently here. The tea is cold, but he sips it anyway.

“Anyway, I was a bit freaked to be sure, but soon enough I found myself accepting the situation. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a place where someone was always shouting, or the rules were always changing, but I’m usually pretty good at coming to terms with whatever’s happening at the moment. Maybe that’s why I was such a natural fit for the army.” He pauses and shakes his head. “Sorry, you’re not here for amateur psychoanalysis.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock says. “So you found yourself accepting the situation…?”

“Yes. It’s funny, when I think about it now, but I was so knackered at the time that my first thought after the initial shock wore off was that if everyone else had fucked off to Dimension X, I was going to have a bit of a lie-down.”

“You…you found out you were completely alone in the world and you took a _nap?”_

“Yep,” John grins. “It was a good one, too. My bunkmates were champion snorers and with them gone, I slept better than I had in months. No nightmares, either.”

That surprises a laugh out of Sherlock. “And then…?”

“And the next thing I remember is a leftenant shaking me and asking me why the hell I was skiving off when I had a surgery to perform.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief. “How many other uncanny experiences have you escaped by _falling asleep?”_

“I…think that’s it? For _that_ type of thing, anyway."

“So there’s more.”

“God, yes. We haven't even gotten to the _really_ freaky bits yet." John pauses. He realises he's _exhausted_ , like the simple act of remembering has sapped all his strength. Much as he wants to continue, to share what came after, he just hasn't got the energy. "Perhaps...I could come back in a few days and tell you the rest? I’m sure you have other things to do with your day, Mr. Holmes—”

“Sherlock, please,”

“—Sherlock, and they’re probably a bit more important than listening to an ex-army doctor’s tales of things that go bump in the night. Or don't.”

“I…can’t say that I do.”

John suspects this isn’t true. He glances at the clock on the wall and is shocked at how late it is. “Is that really the time? Don’t you close up at five?”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “The paranormal rarely operates on a regular timetable, why should I?”

“Well, that’s very kind of you, but—I can’t take up more of your time. Or intrude on your dinner hour.” _The dinner I would ask you to if I had the nerve._

“Italian?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I—” is Sherlock _blushing?_ “I mean, would you like to join me for dinner? I know a nice little Italian place nearby.”

“‘Nice’ meaning shrouded in mystery and inexplicable horror?” John jokes.

Sherlock snorts. “‘Nice’ as in the owner owes me a favor and never lets me pay for anything. Perfect for someone on an army pension.”

John stiffens. “Right. No, thank you.” He begins the laborious climb out of the armchair. _How_ is it so ungodly comfortable? It’s a shame, really. Maybe _someday_ he’ll be attracted to someone who’s not a complete prat. He’s not holding his breath.

“Oh. I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Sherlock peers at him, perplexed.

“Yeah, well-spotted. Here’s a tip for your next interview with a military bloke—pointing out the dismal state of their finances doesn’t go over well.”

“Oh, how _boring._ We both know it’s true, why bother pretending it’s not?”

“Because it’s _rude_ , Sherlock.”

“If I’d merely extended the invitation, you would have turned it down because you can’t afford to eat out often. If I’d offered to buy you dinner, you would have said no because your _pride_ wouldn’t let you.” Sherlock’s voice drips with disdain. “So instead I offer a perfectly acceptable solution and you call me rude. Now _that’s_ rude, if you ask me.”

John is _trying_ to stay angry, damn it, but he can feel his pique melting away. “You don’t know everything, smart-arse.”

“Is that so? What have I missed, then, _Doctor_?”

“ _I_ was going to ask _you_ to dinner, but you beat me to it.” There it was.

A moment of stunned silence. Sherlock stares at him as though his brain’s been broken.

“…Sherlock?”

He swallows, comes back to himself. “You’re right. I…did not predict that possibility.”

“Looks like your spooky psychic detective powers aren’t infallible after all.”

“You’d be surprised how often that’s the case.” Sherlock gets to his feet in a fluid motion that John envies and holds out a hand to help him up. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You want me. An invalided ex-army doctor. To work in the archives of a paranormal research institute. Because we _might_ know some of the same people.” 
> 
> “Indeed. I’m glad you’ve grasped the situation so quickly.” 
> 
> John shakes his head. “Not even a little bit,” he says. “I don’t believe I’m remotely suited or qualified for that work, and frankly the way you’re offering it gives me the creeps.”
> 
> \---  
> Mycroft makes an appearance. A dinner is interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out this story isn't done with me yet! I hope you enjoy. :-)

John and Sherlock walk together out of the Institute and a sleek black car pulls up to the kerb. A tinted window rolls down and someone inside says, “Doctor Watson. A word, if you please.” The voice has the same smooth public school accent as Sherlock, with an added note of smugness on top.

John glances at Sherlock, who is openly fuming. “You couldn’t wait just one night?” he snarls. “ _One…bloody…night?_ ”

“You know that’s not how it works, Sherlock,” the man inside says even more smugly, which John wouldn't have thought possible.

“What’s going on?” John asks. He’s not that surprised when his question goes unanswered. Sherlock continues to glare into the car interior. A few seconds pass, and Sherlock sighs with exaggerated annoyance and rolls his eyes.

“I’m sorry, John. You’d better get this over with, or else he’ll just kidnap you from somewhere else. Tell the git to drop you at Angelo’s when you’re done. I’ll get us a table.” He stalks to the edge of the kerb like an offended cat and raises his hand for a cab without looking back.

The car door opens. It’s not like his life can get any weirder, can it? John maneuvers himself inside, pulling his cane in after and shutting the door. The car starts rolling and the Magnus Institute slides out of view. Sherlock apparently has the devil's own luck when it comes to cab-hailing, as there's no sign of him on the pavement.

John finds himself opposite a severe-looking man with thinning ginger hair. His face is creased in dour lines and his suit looks even more expensive than Sherlock’s.

A folded umbrella leans next to him on the seat, patterned with a subtly textured motif that John _thinks_ may be eyes. It's hard to tell.  


“What the hell is going on?” John asks evenly. Mysterious well-dressed kidnappers in cars seem par for the course at this point. Nothing worth getting worked up over.  


“Hello, Doctor Watson. My…apologies for the unconventional introduction. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I am the director of the Magnus Institute.”

“‘Holmes’? Are you Sherlock’s brother or something?”

“I have that dubious pleasure. As well as his employer.”

Now that John’s looking for it, he can see the resemblance. He resolves _never_ to share that information with Sherlock, who is clearly not a fan.

“And you’re talking to me because…?”

Mycroft smiles thinly and John thinks, _Not a good look for you_. “It has come to my attention that you and I share some…mutual acquaintances.”

“You mean besides the brother I _just_ met?”

Mycroft inclines his head. “Mm. And as a result of those…contacts…I believe it is in both of our best interests to offer you a job with the Institute. You’d be working in Sherlock’s department.”

John can feel his brow puckering in confusion. “You want me. An invalided ex-army doctor. To work in the archives of a paranormal research institute. Because we _might_ know some of the same people.”

“Indeed. I’m glad you’ve grasped the situation so quickly.”

John shakes his head. “Not even a little bit,” he says. “I don’t believe I’m remotely suited or qualified for that work, and frankly the way you’re offering it gives me the creeps.”

Mycroft brings out that thin smile again. “I think you’ll find the compensation quite generous, and you’d be surprised at how… _useful_ medical knowledge can be in our line of work.”

“Come off it. There’s got to be more to it than that. Why me, specifically?”

“You may have observed,” and Mycroft’s eyes narrow in annoyance, “that my brother can be…difficult to work with.”

“Not that I noticed,” John says innocently.

“Well. Be that as it may, it has not escaped my attention that you two enjoy a certain…rapport.”

“Christ, we only met a couple of hours ago.” A thought occurs to John. “Were you _spying_ on us?”

“Nothing so crude, I assure you. But not much in the Institute escapes my notice, especially where Sherlock is concerned.”

“So you want me to come work for your mysterious institute and be your brother’s handler?”

“As well as inform me of any relevant developments.”

“So _I’m_ to become a spy as well. No, thank you.” The car has come to a stop and John glances outside. “I take it this is Angelo’s?”

“Doctor Watson, please don’t be hasty. Your safety is a concern as well, and it would be beneficial to everyone if we could… _keep an eye_ on you.” Mycroft smirks as if enjoying a private joke.

“Right, threats and _more_ creepiness. I don’t like you, Mr. Holmes. But I do like your brother, so I’m not going to tell you where to stick your job offer, much as I’d like to. Instead, I’m going to thank you for the lift and try to forget this whole conversation ever happened.” John opens the car door.

“Of course. My apologies. The offer remains open, should you choose to reconsider. Enjoy your dinner.”

———

“Thanks, I'm meeting someone,” John says in response to the host’s welcome. He spots Sherlock seated at a table near the window. In front of him is a phone, a tablet, and a paper placemat covered with some sort of webbed diagram.

“I'm surprised our esteemed director didn't put you off your dinner,” Sherlock says without looking up as John slides into the opposite chair, leaning his cane against the windowsill. “He always has that affect on me.”

“Takes more than a spooky prat in a fancy car to rattle me,” John returns. Sherlock's shoulders relax minutely and John can see the tension evident in the other man's posture. “You...you thought I might not come,” he says.

Sherlock shrugs. He's still not looking at John. “I didn't have enough data to predict either way,” he says stiffly. It breaks John's heart a little, honestly, but it doesn't take a genius to realize that his pity wouldn’t be well-received. 

He changes the subject instead. “What is all that?” He waves at the array of materials spread out in front of Sherlock.

Now Sherlock _does_ look up and visibly brightens. “A 19th-century Bavarian music box with a string of missing owners,” he says, practically vibrating with glee. “I've just tracked down its last known location.”

“So, what now? Do you go collect it?”

Sherlock deflates slightly. “No. _‘We're meant to be doing research, not legwork.’_ ” From the tone of his voice, John can tell he's quoting someone, and from his sour expression, he can guess who.

“I've never been much good at sitting around, either,” John says with feeling. “Especially when there's work you could be doing.”

“Exactly! And yet, here I am, making connections from afar, feeding the— indulging Mycroft’s curiosity. I’ve been able to take a few ‘research trips,’ but it's... difficult to be away from the institute for any length of time.”

“Why’s that? Seems the farther away from Mycroft, the better. I didn't get the sense that you got on.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “We don't. It's...complicated. He has access to mysteries I simply wouldn't be able to investigate otherwise, and I have certain…resources he lacks. Ah, Angelo,” he says to a portly man who's just bustled up to the table.

“Sherlock!” Angelo beams. “So nice to see you, and with company! What an occasion! Anything on the menu, on the house, for you and for your date.” He winks at John. “This man got me off a murder charge, you know! I’ll get a candle for the table, it’s more romantic.”

He walks away while John’s still trying to process this. “A murder charge? Why were _you_ involved? …Did Cthulhu do it?”

Sherlock snorts. “Hardly. Before I began working at the Institute, I was a consulting detective.”

“I don’t think I’ve met one of those before.”

“Unlikely. I am —was— the only one in the world.” Sherlock preens. “When the police were out of their depth, which was most of the time, I would sometimes step in and lend a hand. _If_ the case was interesting enough.”

“And you found the murderer?”

“Boring. No, I proved Angelo was house-breaking in a completely different area of town. I had to leave the police with _something_ to do, after all.”

John shakes his head, trying (and failing) to understand how tracking down a killer could be _boring_.

Angelo returns with the candle and a server’s pad. John hasn’t even looked at the menu. Sherlock orders the spaghetti bolognese. _Nice to see even posh bastards like a bit of spag bol at the end of a long day,_ thinks John.

Angelo looks at John, and John looks at Sherlock with an implicit challenge. Sherlock grins and narrows his eyes in focus. “He’ll have the pasta primavera,” Sherlock tells Angelo after a second.

After Angelo leaves with their order, John raises an eyebrow. “How did you know I don’t eat meat? Go on, stun me with your cleverness.”

Sherlock actually looks a bit uncomfortable. “I, er—it was a guess.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in guessing.”

“Call it a hunch, then.” He looks away and John lets it go, eager to recapture the conversation’s previously easy flow.

“So, you bringing someone to dinner is an ‘occasion,’ is it?” John ventures.

Sherlock sighs. “According to Angelo’s pedestrian ideas of ‘normal,’ yes. I have the Work, and it leaves me neither the time nor the inclination to pursue the shallow interactions the rest of the world deems necessary for happiness.”

John has no idea to what to say to this. “Ah.” He picks up his fork, looks at it, puts it down again.

Sherlock seems to suddenly remember who he’s talking to and where they are. “Of course, exceptions can be made for…extraordinary circumstances.”

“Is that what I am, then? An ‘extraordinary circumstance’?” John resists the urge to wiggle his eyebrows a bit.

“Oh, yes. It’s exceptional to meet someone who has had such a variety of experiences with the paranormal and still has his sanity and health intact,” Sherlock assures him. “It’s quite fascinating, really.”

_Oh, Christ. I’m a research subject, not a date,_ John realises. _Thank God I figured that out before making a even bigger fool of myself._

John is saved from responding to this revelation by the arrival of their food. At least his pasta primavera looks fresh and inviting. He picks up his fork and spears a bit of courgette.

Sherlock, meanwhile, is observing his own dish with clinical focus. He forks a bit of the bolognese sauce up to eye level, looks at it critically. Sniffs it.

_Please don’t let him be a snob about spag bol, of all things,_ John prays to the patron saint of first dates. Not that this is one, of course. He's been straightened out on _that_ count.  


Sherlock puts down his fork and stands up. “Don’t touch that,” he says, and strides away towards the kitchen.

_‘Don’t touch that?’ Really?_ John is growing more irritated by the second. He continues to eat his own dish, chewing mechanically. He can barely taste it through the bitter tang of disappointment.

Ten minutes later, John is just about finished and Sherlock still hasn’t returned. Has he been stood up? _I thought I was ‘fascinating.’ Maybe he says that to all his research subjects._ _I wonder where the closest tube station is._

He pulls out his phone and is about to bring up the maps app when it buzzes with an incoming text.

**Kitchen. Come if convenient. Approach with caution. SH**

_How did he get my number?_ John wonders, but he’s already on the move. He can see Sherlock now, standing in an alcove beside the double doors and peering through the small square window.

“What—”

“Shh.” Sherlock pulls him back and into the alcove. “Look.”

John looks.

Oddly enough, there's only one man in the kitchen. After a moment of watching him, John isn’t sure the word “man” really applies.

The man is tall with an almost cartoonishly muscular build. He has floppy blond hair held out of his eyes with a hairnet and he’s busily operating a meat grinder, the old-fashioned sort that clamps onto a worktable. That’s not so wrong--it’s only natural that a restaurant of Angelo’s quality makes their own sausage.

No, what makes John flinch is that the man’s left arm is inserted into the grinder up to the elbow. His free hand turns the crank, and fresh pink ground meat worms its way out of the dispenser onto the tabletop. He’s whistling a jaunty tune that John recognizes as some kind of opera aria. Carmen? The Barber of Seville? What is he even thinking? That man is _making sausage_ of himself and John is frozen in sick horror.

Distantly, John can feel Sherlock’s hand clamping down on his shoulder, keeping him from bolting. There’s no need, he couldn’t run if he wanted to. But he can’t keep looking at the neat pile of hamburger on the counter or he really _will_ lose it.

“Steady, Watson,” Sherlock murmurs in his ear, and the use of his surname awakens hibernating military instincts and brings the world into sharp focus. John pulls the mantle of _Captain_ around himself with an effort.

“What do we do?” John whispers.

“We need to bring him to the Institute. He has information we need.”

“Does he…is there anything I should know about his capabilities?”

“No idea.” John glances back and sees that Sherlock is _grinning_ as he peers through the window. It’s a bit disconcerting.

“All right, then. Ready?"

Sherlock nods. A pause, a breath, and then they burst through the double doors.

The man sees them and yanks his arm out of the grinder. The flesh and bone is exposed, yes, but it’s not bleeding nearly as much as it should. His gaze meet John’s, and John sees nothing human behind those icy blue eyes.

“You!” the man —thing— spits. “ _Doctor_. This place is not for you.”

_Do I know him?_ If there's anything familiar about his features, they’re so twisted with contempt and madness that it’s hard to tell.

“Just—just come along with us, please,” John says, surprised at how calm he sounds. “There’s no need to make a fuss. You’re not well. Let’s go somewhere I can examine you.”

The thing that looks like a man laughs, a spiraling whinny that makes John’s teeth hurt. “Examine? I think not, _Doctor_. Archivist.” It nods to Sherlock. “I am well, _very_ well. But it is time for me to go, I think. Be sure to refrigerate that,” gesturing towards the pile of ground-up meat with its bloody stump. The thing begins to turn towards the back door.

Sherlock has not said anything up until this point, but now his voice rings out. **“Where are you going?”**

As Sherlock speaks, John feels a strange itch at the back of his mind.

“To the docks. To report to Jared,” the thing says. Then it scowls, eyes full of hate. “Curse you, Archivist. Knowing that will not do you any good.” It breaks into a sprint, barreling through the exit.

John is after it before the door has even closed fully, out into the street. He looks about wildly and sees a flash of white — the retreating chef’s coat. “This way!” he shouts back at Sherlock, and continues the chase.

The thing seems to have merely human speed, but John hasn’t run in a while and he’s winded sooner than he wants to admit. Somewhere between the twists and cutbacks, he realizes he’s lost his quarry. He stands in an alley, puts a hand out against the wall to support himself, breathes heavily for a moment. Black spots swim before his eyes.

Sherlock had fallen behind but soon joins him where he stands panting. “I, I lost him,” John says. His vision is beginning to clear.

_Overdid it a bit there,_ he thinks. But it had felt so, so right to have a target to chase again. To have a purpose, even if only for a few minutes. But already his single-minded focus is fading into the background complaints of overexerted muscles.

“It’s all right. We know where he’s headed.” Sherlock is scanning John, looking him over with strange intensity. “The Hunt, _too?_ ” he mutters to himself. “What _are_ you, John Watson?”

“Sorry?” Did he hear that right?

Sherlock blinks, refocuses. “Right. Let’s go.” He turns, begins to walk towards the main road.

“Go where?” John follows.

“Back to the Institute, of course. Was that not obvious?”

John ignores the dig. “Hang on a mo’, Sherlock. This date, or whatever, has been…well, I don’t know that it’s been _fun_ , but it’s been interesting. But I’m very tired, so I think I’ll just head home.”

Sherlock is already shaking his head before John finishes. “ _Think_ , John. That man _knew_ you, and don’t think I won’t be asking about that later. He called you ‘Doctor.’He might know where you live. Do you really want to risk him turning up at your flat in the middle of the night?”

John stops dead. “I…you’re right, I didn’t think of that,” he says slowly. “But it’s not like I have anywhere else to kip tonight.” _I'll be damned if I’m going to explain this to Harry._

“There’s a cot in the Institute. I use it sometimes when I’m working late and need to sleep. Which isn’t often. The sleeping, that is, not the working late.”

“I couldn’t…”

“Your precious little social niceties are _boring_ , John, and you don’t really mean them.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You said yourself that you don’t have anywhere else to go. How long is it going to take for both of us to talk you into something you’re going to do anyway?” Sherlock turns, continues walking.

_Fuck. He’s right._ John lengthens his stride to catch up. Back to the Institute it is, then. For now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don't understand. You've been touched by at least _four_ powers and you’re practically unscathed!” Sherlock glares at John.
> 
> John glares right back. “I don’t have the _foggiest_ idea what you’re talking about,” he retorts. “Is this where you go all _X-Files_ on me? I’m _sorry_ I’m not the perfect little lab rat you were looking for. I'm _sorry_ I can't help you out with your...spooky mystery shite. Now, you were going to help me out with a place to sleep?”  
> 

Sherlock rounds on John once they're inside. He had been silent on the ride to the Institute, evidently distracted with his own private thoughts. But now his considerable attention is back on John.

“This is... unacceptable,” he grits out, stalking towards the smaller man.

John, to his chagrin, finds this both intimidating and weirdly hot. He swallows. “What is?”

“I don't understand. You've been touched by at least _four_ powers and you’re practically unscathed!” He glares at John.

John glares right back. “I don’t have the _foggiest_ idea of what you’re talking about,” he retorts. “Is this where you go all _X-Files_ on me? I’m _sorry_ I’m not the perfect little lab rat you were looking for. I'm _sorry_ I can't help you out with your...spooky mystery shite. Now, you were going to help me out with a place to sleep?”

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise. “You don’t even… _Fine,_ ” he spits. “I’m going to tell you _exactly_ what you’ve been playing with for the past few years. Try not to let it break your brain. Such as it is.”

Before he can continue, a chime echoes through the marble entry hall. Sherlock sighs heavily and turns back to the front door. Angelo is standing on the front steps. “Sherlock texted me,” he says, and holds up John’s cane. “He said you forgot this.”

John steps forward in a daze, anger forgotten, takes it from the smiling man. “Er, thank you.” _What the…_

Angelo gone, John turns back to Sherlock. “You…what did you _do_?” he asks with wonder.

Sherlock’s anger seems to have likewise evaporated. “A simple enough deduction. You need the danger, the excitement. You just don’t feel whole, otherwise. I believe you can thank the Hunt for _that_ particular symptom.”

“I…you said something about the Hunt before, back in the alley. What did you mean?”

Shelock glances at the CCTV overhead. “Let’s head down to the Archive. More secure, more comfortable. Less Mycroft.” He heads towards the lift and John follows, reveling in the newfound ease of doing so.

———

They are back in their respective chairs, this time holding Scotch instead of tea. With no windows to tell the time of day, John feels a sense of unreality washing over him. Like no time has passed since this afternoon. Like that…thing at Angelo’s was just a trauma-fuelled hallucination. But his cane is nowhere in sight.

The tape recorder crouches between them like an elderly pet, humming away to itself. “Do we really need that?” John asks.

“Pointless to turn it off. It wouldn't take.”

“Hmm,” John says as though this makes any sort of sense. (It doesn’t.)

Sherlock leans forward, steeples his fingers in front of his face. “So. What do you think happened to you on those…occasions you shared with me this afternoon?”

John shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know. I guess that’s why I came to you.” He pauses, stares into his Scotch. “That’s not true, actually. There are lots of things that happen in wartime that you—you never really find out the reason for. I don’t think I expected an explanation. I just wanted to tell someone what happened. I thought, I don’t know, maybe it would make me feel better.”

“And this evening? Has anything like that happened to you before?”

“Eugh, people turning themselves into hamburger? Not hardly—” and he pauses, struck by a sudden recollection. Sherlock pounces on it.

**“Tell me.”**

John feels that itch in the back of his brain, the same as in the kitchen at Angelo's. The same as when Sherlock asked about the other times.

“Well, it wasn’t the same, of course—I’ve never seen anything like _that_ before and I hope I never do again—but there was a fellow in my regiment who was a bit _weird_ about his body.

“I mean, we were all expected to maintain a certain level of fitness, but this bloke was _obsessed_ with the way he looked, with putting on muscle. It was a bit creepy, the way he’d be at the fitness centre all hours of the day and night. Any time he wasn’t on duty, basically. It got so I was starting to worry about him, and well, I _am_ a doctor.”

John notices how easily the words flow from him, how vivid the memory has become. As if Sherlock’s asking was all he needed.

“So I caught up with him one night, on his way to the fitness centre, and I asked if he was feeling all right. I didn’t say anything about his frame of mind, but I did say I was worried about overexertion and wanted to make sure he was feeling well. And he said…” John can feel the blood draining away from his face as the memory returns.

“‘I am well, _very_ well, _Doctor_ ,’” Sherlock says into the silence.

“Yes. I…yes. But that wasn’t…I don’t think it could be. The same man.”

“The Flesh has a way of… _rearranging_ itself over time. It could have been.” Is it John’s imagination, or did Sherlock shudder a little bit?

“What d’you mean, ‘the Flesh’? You said that before, too.”

Sherlock looks at the tape recorder. Shuts it off. Turns it over and takes out the batteries.

“I don’t know how long that will last. But I’ll explain as much as I can before Mycroft feels the need to interfere.”

“What, how could he—? That thing is _ancient_ , it's not like it has _Bluetooth_."

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not important. Listen.”

John listens.

“We've become aware of a number of…entities who seem to be behind the more credible reports we get at the Archive. As far as we can tell, they are the physical manifestation of humanity’s most basic fears. Death. The dark.”

He pauses, looks pointedly at John. “The void. Isolation. Mutilation. Hunting…and being hunted.” _Pause_.

“Go…go on,” John croaks. His throat is suddenly dry and he gulps the rest of his Scotch.

“The main point, the point that brings us to _you,_ John, is that _very_ few people encounter these entities in their pure form and return safely to ordinary reality. And _no one_ I’ve come across, in the hundreds of statements I’ve reviewed, has survived meeting _four_ of them. Except for me. And now you.” Sherlock leans back, watching John’s face closely.

“So I ask again, John Watson— _What are you?_ ”

This is suddenly too much to process, and John is _so_ tired. “I—I can’t think about this right now.” He’s stitched a man’s stomach back together while under artillery fire, for God's sake, and he’s near tears because of what, a—a _ghost story_? He’s just tired, that’s all. He clears his throat. “Where was that cot, again?”

“ _Damn_ it, John, I need to know—”

“Damn it, Sherlock, I’m a fucking _human being_! Who needs _sleep_! The way people _do_! Or did you not get that memo?”

 _Oof, that might have been a bit much._ John can almost see Sherlock retreating back into his shell. “Of course,” he says stiffly. “This way.” He stands, neglecting to extend a helping hand this go round.

———

The cot in the storage room isn’t luxurious, but John’s slept on worse, hasn’t he? After the day he’s had, he might not even dream, and wouldn’t that be a treat for once. “G’night, then,” he says to Sherlock’s lanky silhouette in the doorway. “I guess…I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Good night, John,” Sherlock says, and then. “I’m sorry.” John can only guess what those words cost him. Sherlock doesn’t strike him as a man used to apologising. “I…I know this is a lot to take in. I’ve been swimming in it for the past year, and I. I just wanted answers, for once.”

John smiles into the darkness. “That makes two of us, then. But maybe we can help each other figure it out. I suppose I can play lab rat a while longer.”

“That’s _not_ …well. Thank you. Sleep well.” The door closes softly and John is left in darkness.

 _Fear of the dark, eh?_ That’s not one John has ever suffered from. As far as he’s concerned, the dark is a blessing. He sleeps.

———

He’s back under the stars, in the desert. Nothing but sand and sky as far as he can see.A feeling of vertigo, as though he might trip and fall forever into the endless black. It’s a familiar sight, a familiar feeling by now. But—something’s different.

Sherlock’s sitting on the sand nearby, his knees pulled up to his chest. He is observing John intently, his features silver in the starlight. John’s brow creases. “Sher—”

And then the dream changes.

He is wandering the empty base in surgical scrubs. He occasionally opens a door or peers behind a building, but he knows it’s futile. That he’s all alone. Alone forever. That’s all right, _alone protects me_. Where did that come from? Nowhere. It doesn't matter. He's alone, after all.

Or is he?

He looks over on instinct, and there Sherlock stands in the shadow of a nearby building. His hands are in his coat pockets, his collar turned up. He looks unhappy. John starts towards him. “Sherlock, what the _hell_ —”

He is looking through a window of the fitness centre, watching a private run through an endless weightlifting routine. His muscles shift and ripple under his skin like water. His hands are there, and then they aren’t. Or maybe there are more than two. It's hard to tell.

He turns over, begins a series of pushups, and are those _eyes_ between his shoulderblades, looking back at him?It makes John’s brain hurt. He turns away, nauseated, and Sherlock is _still_ watching him.

 _“_ Please, I can’t—this is—” But Sherlock is gone, and a wave of despair washes over John. His fist clenches and he waits for the next horror to emerge from the depths of his unconscious.

But instead a hand on his shoulder shakes him awake.

———

They sit side by side on the storage room cot in the dark. John is still shaking. Sherlock is silent, giving him time. He doesn't fuss, doesn't ask stupid questions. He just sits there, solid and comforting, which is exactly what John needs right now.

Finally, Sherlock asks quietly, “Was that—”

“Yep.” John forces himself to breathe more slowly. _In through the nose and out through the mouth._ Just another night. He can do this. “You were a new addition, though.”

“It’s an unfortunate side effect of the statements. I didn’t mean to—intrude.”

“No, it’s—it’s all right.” John's heartbeat is starting to calm. “Nice change of pace, to see a friendly face there.” He leans against the other man's shoulder, just for a moment.

He feels Sherlock turn to look at him, then. “You are an extraordinary man, John Watson.”

John can feel his face grow warm and is grateful for the darkness. “I—you said you didn’t sleep, much. But you were there, in my dream. Does that mean—”

“I seem to have dozed off for a moment at my desk, yes.”

John takes a breath, gathers his nerve. “Would you—stay? I, I know this cot isn’t very big, but I think it might—help. I’ll try not to attack you in my sleep,” he offers, a weak attempt at humor.

Sherlock goes very still.

“It’s, don’t worry about it. Never mind,” John says hastily. _Stupid_ , he thinks with venom.

“No, it’s—it's fine. My feet hang off the end, that’s all,” Sherlock says. “I’ll stay. For a bit. My mind—it doesn’t turn off, the way other people’s do. And if I have an idea—”

“Then get up. It’s fine.” John doesn’t particularly feel like examining the relief that blooms inside him, warming his core, softening his clenched insides. He pulls his legs up onto the cot, makes to lie down. “But for now—c’mere?”

Sherlock swings his legs around, arranges himself gingerly. John is on the inside, facing the wall, but it really isn’t a very large bed. “Can you—budge over?” Sherlock also rolls onto his side, facing out into the room. They lie there in the dark, back to back, and John is comforted by the other man’s warmth, his quiet breathing. He feels his own breath begin to soften and lets himself drift back to unconsciousness.

This time, there are no dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “First things first, let’s get some caffeine and carbs into both of us. Rule one: Don’t invade my boundaries. Rule two: you’re splitting these pastries with me.”
> 
> “Fine,” Sherlock spits with exasperation, but John thinks he secretly looks a bit pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may undergo an edit or two after it's posted, but I just couldn't wait to put it up! XD
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left a comment so far - you don't know how much they mean to me. <3 I'm so glad you're enjoying this odd little fusion!

John awakens alone and disoriented in the dark, his body a mass of aching muscles. But he's not covered in sweat and his palms are free of the usual fingernail indentations. His jaw isn’t sore, for once, and neither is his throat. No clenching or screaming, then. _I owe Sherlock one, for a good night's sleep if nothing else._

It's not _completely_ dark, he notices. Light from the Archive is streaming in through the small window, limning the edges of shelves and filing cabinets. It's very quiet.

John stretches, hears a few things pop. His shoulder is sore—no surprise there—but his leg is mercifully quiet aside from the normal grumbling of overused muscles. He feels for his phone to check the time, but it’s not in his pocket. Neither is his wallet. Strange, that. He doesn’t remember taking them out before he collapsed last night. Perhaps he left them in Sherlock’s office. He extracts himself from the cot and pads to the door. Looks through the window.

Sherlock is outside in a…blue silk dressing gown? It’s thrown over the same tailored shirt and trousers from the previous night. It’s an odd look, but he’s pulling it off. _Perhaps this is what passes for business casual in the Archive_ , John thinks with an internal snicker.

He’s holding what looks to be a heated discussion with Mycroft. John can’t hear a thing and realises the storage room must be soundproofed. _That’s a bit weird._ He quietly eases the door open and Sherlock's acid voice joins his scowl.

“—of your business. Don’t you have heads of state to be spying on, Big Brother?”

“It _became_ my business when you brought him here last night,” Mycroft retorts. “Our patron’s protections only extend so far without a contract. _Do_ hurry it up, Sherlock. We’re working on a timeline, if you’ve forgotten.” His back is to John, but John can picture his supercilious smile well enough.

“Oh, take your timeline and piss off.” Sherlock looks past his brother’s shoulder, sees John standing in the storage room doorway. “You’re boring me, and John’s awake. See you never, hopefully.”

Mycroft heaves a theatrical sigh and moves towards the exit. “Have it your way, brother mine. But don’t take too long. I’ll be in touch later to check on any…developments.”

“Develop this,” Sherlock mutters, making a rude gesture at Mycroft’s retreating back. He turns to John. “Good, you’re awake. I need to confirm a few deductions about your involvement with the entities.”

John shakes his head, holds up a hand. “Not bloody likely. I need coffee and a bite before I’ll be any use.” A thought occurs to him. “When did _you_ last eat? You didn’t eat anything at Angelo’s”—he grimaces at the memory—“or after we came back. Did you have breakfast already?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’re as bad as Mycroft. ‘ _You actually **do** need regular nourishment to function, Sherlock,_’” he mimics.

“Erm, yes? That’s…true?” John ignores Sherlock’s noise of derision. “Well, suit yourself. I’ll just run down to a cafe and grab something. Er, have you seen my wallet?”

Sherlock huffs. “Over there.” He waves at a pile of— _hang on_. John’s wallet, keys, and phone are sitting neatly atop a packed army rucksack. _His_ rucksack. Anger rises in John’s mind like an oncoming wave of static as he unzips it to find his shaving kit and a few changes of clothes inside. “Sherlock, what the _hell?_ Did you get this from my flat?”

Sherlock beams, oblivious to John’s irritation. “I thought you might want a few things, since it’s not safe to go back yet. Your gun’s in there as well.”

John scrubs a hand over his face. “You pickpocketed me. And got my address from my wallet. And let yourself in with my keys.”

“Well, _obviously_.”

“Where do I even…Okay. Let’s get this straight. What you did…that was an _incredible_ invasion of privacy.” He speaks slowly, as if to a small child. He holds up a hand again to forestall any interjections. “And no, this isn’t about my ‘pedestrian conventions’, or whatever you’d call them. I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours, Sherlock, and I can already tell that you’ll run roughshod over pretty much any boundary if you think it’s justified. And maybe you’re used to getting your way, with your stupid cheekbones and more-logical-than-thou attitude, but you’re going to be doing a few things _my_ way if you want my help.”

“I—” Sherlock looks satisfyingly like a landed fish at this point.

“Nope, not finished.” John takes a deep breath, lets a little Captain Watson seep into his voice. “If you want me to cooperate with you on _any_ of this, I need your understanding. No pickpocketing. No visiting my flat when I’m not there. No snooping through my phone. _Do you understand?_ ”

“I—” He’s gone quite pink, for some reason.

“It’s a simple question. I want to hear ‘Yes, John,’ or ‘No, John.’ Which is it?”

“Y-yes. Yes, John. I understand.” And then, in a rush: “You think my cheekbones are _stupid_? What does that even _mean_?”

Oh, he _had_ said that, hadn’t he? “Not important,” John mumbled. “It’s just that…well, _you_ know how you look. I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your _keen eye for detail_ how it affects people.”

Sherlock looks more flummoxed than ever. “Not really. People tend to spend as little time with me as possible. Except for Mycroft, who I wish would spend less.” John can’t help but snort at this, and after a second Sherlock smiles at him tentatively. He's still miffed, but Sherlock has a way of short-circuiting his pique. It’s damned annoying.

 _Moving on_. “I was going to get breakfast,” John remembers. Sherlock brightens, leans over, retrieves a takeaway cup and a paper bag from where they were hidden behind the front desk. “You can’t trust Mycroft around pastries,” he confides. He holds them out to John. A peace offering.

John can't stay angry at someone who's brought him coffee and croissants. “Thanks,” he says with real gratitude, and accepts the goods. “And…thanks for the clothes. I wish you’d asked me, _obviously_ , but it was…thoughtful of you.” Sherlock looks obscenely proud of himself at this. “ _Yes_ , you successfully peopled, don’t let it go to your head.

“First things first, let’s get some caffeine and carbs into _both_ of us. Rule one: Don’t invade my boundaries. Rule two: you’re splitting these pastries with me.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock spits with exasperation, but John thinks he secretly looks a bit pleased.

———

“So, we’ve established that you’ve had first-degree contact with the Vast, the Lonely, and the Flesh.” Sherlock is standing on the sofa and busily taping various pieces of paper to the wall above it. “Let’s see who else you’ve been playing with. Ah yes, the Hunt.”

John brushes a few last buttery crumbs from his face. “You mentioned that one last night. What does that one do, again?”

“You’re closer to an avatar than a victim,” Sherlock muses. “That feeling last night, when you were chasing down our meathead friend—do you feel that way often? The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, _et cetera?_ ” He waves a hand to indicate _et cetera_.

John takes a moment to think back to last night. When he thinks about pounding down the alleyway after that _thing—_ “It did feel good, in a way. _Right_. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what needed doing. I haven’t felt that way much, since—since I got back to London.”

He closes his eyes and rubs his temples, trying to banish the memory. “I don’t think I _want_ to be that person, though, as natural as it feels. That person is—well, he’s not the kind of chap you bring ‘round to meet your mum, is he?”

“What, you mean— _my_ mother?” Sherlock sounds startled. “Why—”

John snorts. “No, you daft git. _Anyone’s_ mum. I mean, it’s just hard to fit in when your _blood_ is telling you to hop a fence and chase down a killer. Doesn’t go over well at pub trivia night or the office Christmas party, is what I’m saying.”

“‘Fitting in’ is overrated. Chasing criminals and monsters is a much more worthwhile use of time.”

“Yeah, well, you _would_ say that.” A thought occurs to John. “Are you—an avatar, or whatever, as well?” That would make a lot of sense.

Sherlock turns away from his conspiracy wall, plops down on the sofa, pulls his legs up towards his chest. He looks very young like that. “Yes, but not the way you’re thinking,” he says to his knees. “I don’t belong to the Hunt.”

“You don’t?…No, of course not. You and Mycroft, you work for something that…knows things. Right?” Sherlock’s head snaps up, and John thinks that he easily could get addicted to surprising Sherlock, just to see that look on his face.

“Yes. The Eye, or Beholding. How did you make the connection?”

“Well, Mycroft’s not exactly subtle about it, is he?”

Sherlock sighs. “That bloody umbrella, the stupid ‘keeping an eye on you’ jokes…he wants to rub it in your face that he thinks you’re too dim to catch on.”

John smirks. “Exactly. And there’s that thing _you_ did to me a couple of times, where you asked me to tell you something. You did it to that thing at Angelo’s, too. Makes my brain itch.”

Sherlock is looking at him very warily indeed. “And…that doesn’t bother you. That I could make you tell me things.” There’s a new tension in his curled-up form that warns John he’s one wrong response away from bolting or shutting down completely. _Careful, Watson. Softly, now_.

“Well,” he says slowly, “you’ve only used it on me when there was something I _wanted_ to tell you, but I couldn’t find the words or I was having trouble remembering. And I don’t think it counts if you use spooky mind-control powers on monsters.”

“But it _is_ spooky.”

“Sherlock, you told me my life story from my haircut and some tan lines. _Without_ psychic powers. _That’s_ spooky—” Sherlock’s shoulders tighten and John can almost see the walls going up “—and very, very impressive. Fantastic, even.”

The portcullis pauses its descent. _Almost there._ “You have a real gift, even without the powers you get from this Eye, or whatever you call it.

"In fact,” he realises as a few more pieces fall into place, “I bet you go out of your way _not_ to use your powers if you can help it. It’s probably not any fun to just _know_ things and rob yourself of the challenge of finding out. Am I wrong?”

A Sherlock at a loss for words is a rare and satisfying sight indeed.

“You’re—you’re not wrong,” Sherlock says at last, a bit hoarsely. “And you notice more than I gave you credit for.”

“Bit of an advantage to be a Hunter that everyone underestimates, I suppose.” John wonders if his grin looks as sharklike as it feels.

Sherlock swallows, breaks eye contact, shakes his head as if to clear it. He uncurls at last from his dressing gown nest.

“Right,” he says, and John can’t tell which of them he’s talking to. “So those four, and I suppose we can throw the Eye in there as well, since you’re staying here. Actually…” He wrinkles his nose in annoyance. “My stupid brother _does_ have a point. Did he offer you a job, by chance?”

“He did, and I told him to stuff it.”

“Because you don’t want to work at the Institute, or with me, or…” Sherlock trails off.

“Don’t be thick. I just don’t like being bullied or told what to do as though I don’t have any choice.” John drains the last of his coffee. “Make a case for working here that doesn’t patronize me or involve vague threats, and I’ll hear you out. Promise.”

“You remember Molly?” John nods. “She came in last year to give a statement, like you. She used to be an M.E. at Bart’s and some of the cadavers in the mortuary were…let’s say they were giving her some trouble. I offered her a bit of locum work here at the Archives, and as soon as she signed an employment contract…” he shrugged. “The situation resolved itself.”

“Do I want to know what that means?”

“Probably not.” Sherlock leans forward. “Anyway. The Eye has its own agenda, as much as any of the other powers, but it’s not the worst patron by far. And if you work here, you fall under its protection.”

“Even if I’m…an avatar, or whatever, of another power?”

“It’s basically a matter of…food,” Sherlock said with distaste. “The powers are fueled by a few things. Fear and sacrifice, mainly, and they don’t much care where it comes from. It’s…it’s like working at one restaurant and eating at another. As long as you’re paying, they don’t care where you got the money.”

John thinks of Angelo’s and suppresses a shudder. “And I’ll be feeding the Eye…what?”

“Information, mostly.” Sherlock gestures at the tape recorder, humming away in its usual place. “It likes to know what’s going on. Like honeybees, we fly off and retrieve bits of information to bring back to the hive.”

“So _that’s_ why those things are always running.”

“I see there are a _few_ things you haven’t figured out yet,” Sherlock observes drily.

“Oi, shut it, you. Fine, so if I _do_ sign a contract with you lot, what does that mean?”

“You help me out with investigations, follow up on statements. Stitch us up when things get messy, which happens occasionally.” Sherlock looks down at one of his hands, flexing it, and John senses a story there. “You can stay in the storage room for the time being until we straighten out your flat.”

“And I…what, just bathe in the sink and eat takeaway for the next week? It’s not that I’m not grateful, but—”

Sherlock interrupts him. “There’s a decon shower next to Artefact Storage and a kitchenette in the lounge. Take this in case you need anything else,” and he tosses a bank card at John, who automatically catches it.

“Does the Institute have a line item for stray doctors in its budget, then?”

“Possibly, but…” Sherlock grins. “That’s Mycroft’s personal card. I’d put it to use before he notices it’s gone, if I were you.”

John grins back despite himself. “Lovely. I’ll buy a few dozen umbrellas, shall I? He’ll never notice.”

“Probably not.”

———

An hour later, John is more or less clean and in fresh clothes. The decon shower was far from luxurious, but the shampoo and conditioner he’d found there (Sherlock’s, he’s positive) made up for it. He keeps reaching up to touch the hair at the back of his neck, so much softer than usual. _Stuff probably costs more than my rent_ , he thinks ruefully.

“Where is everyone, then?” he asks Sherlock. John’s sitting on the edge of the cot, pulling on his socks. “I mean, Molly and whoever else works down here with you?”

Sherlock gives him an odd look. “It’s Saturday.”

“Oh, I—I didn’t mean to make work for you on your day off,” John says, embarrassed. “If you’d rather—I’ll be fine here ’til Monday.”

Sherlock shoots him the _Don’t be an idiot_ look that’s already become so familiar. “John. Do you really think that I’d leave the most interesting case I’ve encountered in _weeks_ to go…watch telly?”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way.” Again, John wishes Sherlock would stop referring to him as a mystery or an experiment. But it _does_ make sense, considering his natural inclinations. And that of the entity he serves.

“There are still some details of your history I’d like to flesh out, if I may…unless you need to _eat_ again, or something else equally tedious.”

“And you started out asking so nicely, too,” John sighs. “I’m fine for awhile yet, but did you say there was a kettle down here?”

———

Tea in hand, John contemplates where to pick up the thread of his narrative. “It might be helpful…if you asked me what you want to know,” he admits to Sherlock. “There are bits that feel—I dunno, _fuzzy_ when I try to think about them too hard. You helped me remember about that weird bodybuilding private last night, maybe you can help with the rest.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists in reluctance, but he nods assent. “We may come across other entities you’ve encountered in time, but there’s one thing I haven’t been able to work out.” He looks frustrated. “It should be _obvious_ , but you are proving to be more of an enigma than I expected.”

“Erm, thanks? I think?”

The detective glances over at the conspiracy wall of paper and string, then back at John. “Most people who escape from the entities have one thing in common: an anchor. Someone or something that keeps them grounded, or that’s so important that it pulls them back to reality.”

“Like what?”

“It could be anything, as long as it’s significant to the person. One woman escaped the Stranger by remembering her mother’s face. Another man broke free of the Spiral’s maze because it was _teatime_ and he was hungry.” Sherlock shakes his head in something like wonder. “Sometimes obliviousness is its own defense, I suppose.”

He looks at John, as though he could pull the answer out of him by thought alone ( _and maybe he_ ** _can_** , John thinks with a shiver). “But your parents are dead, you have no close friends here in the city, and you don’t get on with your brother, probably because he’s an alcoholic who recently walked out on his wife.”

“Sister,” John corrects, letting the rest go. For now.

“I—what? But your phone—”

“Harry’s short for Harriet.” He tries not to feel too gleeful at Sherlock’s crestfallen face.

“ _Harriet_. There’s always something,” Sherlock mutters to himself, then returns to the subject. “So, what’s your anchor, John? What keeps you coming back when reality goes sideways?”

John briefly conducts an internal inventory. “Well, when I was overseas, I always had patients to be getting back to. Not sure that’s what you’re looking for, though.” He pauses. “If I’m being honest with myself, it’s probably something like sheer bloodymindedness. Anything tries to drive me insane or get me to go gentle into that good night, I tell it to sod off.”

Sherlock is surprised into a genuine laugh by this, not just his usual smirk or chuckle. It’s deep and almost soundless. He shakes his head, still laughing. “John. Bloody. Watson. You _are_ a marvel.”

The laugh is infectious and John joins in. “I suppose I am, cheating all sorts of dread powers with nothing but stubbornness and a bad temper to back me up. Ought to give me a medal.”

“I’ll see if we have anything suitable in Artefact Storage.”

———

“So, what’s next?” John asks. The uncanny timelessness of the Archive is beginning to grate on him. “Am I clear to get some air? I could use a walk, and I’d like to see the sun _sometime_ today.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Suit yourself. There’s still the potential for danger, of course, but that’s nothing new.”

“Good enough for me." He reaches for his jacket. "Pass me Mycroft’s card, will you? I’ll pick up something for dinner. Will you be here when I get back, or are you off for the night?”

Sherlock looks down and away with studied nonchalance that John finds almost indescribably endearing. “I, er—I’ll be here. If that’s—I, I have some things to look into.”

“Brilliant. Indian all right with you?”

———

John steps out into the sunshine, or what passes for it on this overcast day. It’s still better than the unchanging light of the Archive basement. In his pocket is a key to the Institute and a folded copy of his “employment” contract, which Sherlock insisted he sign before leaving. His gun is tucked into the small of his back—also at Sherlock’s insistence. It’s a comforting weight, although he doesn’t like to admit it.

The air is cool on his face and he revels in the newfound ease of walking without pain, without that damn cane. _I suppose I’ll have to find some trouble eventually to keep the Hunt off my back_ , he thinks wryly. _I’ll probably be fine for the afternoon. Not many monsters about this time of day, yeah?_

He strolls down the riverbank towards Vauxhall Bridge, pausing here and there to enjoy the view. He’s been underground for less than a day, but it feels like he can breathe easier up here. He remembers there's an Indian place he rather likes off Vauxhill Bridge Road and turns away from the river, heading west towards Regency Street. On a whim, he decides to take a detour through Bessborough Gardens.

He sits on one of the benches, basking in the odd sunbeam that makes its way down to him. He half-closes his eyes, feeling remarkably catlike in the moment.

 _Much like a certain archivist_ , a voice whispers in his mind, as he pictures Sherlock prowling pantherlike and predatory through the Archive stacks. He shakes his head, dislodging the image. _What a piece of work that one is. Not to mention too fascinating for his own good_. _Or rather,_ ** _my_** _own goo_ d.

Those feelings are complicated and he’s not sure he’s ready to look at them full-on just yet. He knows that latching on the first person to break through his self-imposed isolation might not be the healthiest option, but there’s something about Sherlock’s mix of devastating intelligence and vulnerable insecurity that he’s finding hard to ignore. That John suspects he’s one of the few to witness the latter is even more intriguing.

 _Fuck._ John _knows_ he’s got a bit of a rescuer complex, and Sherlock seems tailor-made to slot into those codependent tendencies.

In some ways, things were easier before he met Sherlock, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. He shakes his head again, smiling ruefully to himself and getting to his feet. _Plenty of time to figure things out, especially if we’ll be in each other’s pockets until I get my flat situation sorted_.

He makes his way towards the far end of the gardens. Bessborough Gardens only has one exit at the northwest corner, but there are two gates there now, side by side. John walks through the larger of the two, lost in thought and oblivious to the way the world blurs and shifts as he does so.

He meanders along for another quarter mile, and then looks around, frowning. He remembered the Indian restaurant being just across the road and a little further up, but he doesn’t recognize the particular street he’s on. Did he make a wrong turning somewhere? He doesn’t recall leaving the main road, but this definitely isn’t one he’s familiar with. _Must have overshot_ , he thinks, and turns around.

Ten minutes later, he’s even more perplexed. He hasn’t spent loads of time in Westminster, it’s true, but he’s never gotten _lost_ here before. He pulls his phone out, but he’d forgotten to plug it in and its dead black screen reflects his own wrinkled brow back at him. No answers there.

 _Something isn’t right_. He doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but he doesn’t question it. He trusts his instincts when it comes to _not-rightness_. He stops walking, slowly turns in a circle. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he’s the only person in sight. There are sounds of traffic in the distance—aren’t there? He starts walking towards the noise, more briskly this time.

Another five minutes pass before John has to admit that the city noise isn’t getting any louder, staying just this side of audible no matter how far he walks. He’s even more turned around now. The street signs are all unfamiliar, the clouds make it hard to tell where the sun is, and he can’t see the water. He is, he acknowledges to himself, completely lost.

 _Maybe I’ve finally gone mental,_ he thinks with a tinge of despair. _Army vet goes out unsupervised, loses it in Westminster_. _Someone’ll be along in a white van for me in no time._

He trudges to a bench, half-collapsing onto it. His leg’s beginning to ache and he could scream from frustration. _Could always have a lie-down,_ he thinks, and quashes a hysterical giggle. _It’s worked before_.

 ** _It’s worked before_.** He repeats the words back to himself. _It’s worked before…when I was mixed up with one of those bloody entities_. _Which_ , he realises with a start, _is **exactly** what’s happening now_. _But which one?_ He tries to remember what Sherlock had said about the others.

It’s not the Stranger, he doesn’t think - he hasn’t seen another soul, human or not. But these empty streets aren’t the same as the Lonely's isolation, either. The empty military base he’d wandered through had been deserted but familiar. Not like this maze. _Oh._

 _Got you,_ he thinks with savage triumph. Sherlock’s voice unspools smoothly in his head like one of those damned tape recorders. _“The Spiral’s domain is the fear of madness. It is lies, deception, not being able to rely on your senses.”_

And John had replied, “Well, of _course_ I’m afraid of going mad. I have a psychosomatic limp—”

“— _had_ ,” Sherlock interjected.

“— _had_ a psychosomatic limp, nightmares every night, and a handful of experiences that would get me sectioned if I talked about them to anyone but you. Why _wouldn’t_ I be afraid of losing the plot?”

Sherlock had looked around uneasily then. “I wouldn’t be quite so…upfront about my fears, if I were you. You may have had an unlikely amount of luck so far, but there’s no sense tempting fate.”

“I’m surprised to hear you talk like that, about fate and such,” John remarked. “Didn’t think you went in for that sort of thing.”

“I don’t. I _also_ don’t go in for _blathering_ about my weaknesses if I think someone may be listening. And,” here Sherlock nodded darkly at the recorder, “someone here is _always_ listening.”

So. A malevolent entity beyond human comprehension has decided to trap John in its maze and make his worst fears come true—or at least, make him _believe_ they had. So far, so horrible.

Again, he hears Sherlock’s voice in his head. _“What’s your anchor, John? What keeps you coming back when reality goes sideways?”_

He had bragged to Sherlock about his sheer stubborn bloodymindedness, hadn’t he? _So come on, Watson, let’s see it. Where’s that celebrated fighting spirit?_

He tries to reach for his Captain Watson-ness, pull it on like a suit of armor, but he’s so bloody _tired_ , and lost, and alone, and his resolve just isn’t strong enough.

But apparently, his efforts are enough to get the attention of _something_. John squints down the street and sees an impossibly tall, thin figure coalesce from the shadows. Its arms are down by its sides, and its fingers…they almost drag on the ground, but that can’t be, can it? Fingers that long can’t exist. This _thing_ can’t exist.

Looking at it makes his head spin and he shuts his eyes. But not knowing where it is makes him nervous, so he opens them again. Settles for focusing on the ground at its feet.

“Now, _this_ is something very interesting indeed,” a voice says from above him. The creature has made its way to his bench. Looms over him. “A man who is mad, and _not_ mad, and afraid, and _not_ afraid. What a _perfect_ place for you this is, here at the center of things that _are_ and _aren’t._ ” The voice sounds like chimes and moaning wind, and it glitches in and out like a faulty speaker.

“Who— _what_ are you?” John rasps out.

“If you know enough to know _where_ you are, then you know enough to know who _I_ am,” the thing chides him. “And then why would you believe anything I say? Not that I’d recommend it,” it adds in an amused tone.

“Please. I, I _think_ I know. But I’d like to hear you say it.” He shivers, attempts to raise his eyes—and almost passes out from nausea and disorientation. _Nope, bad idea_. “Humor me?”

The thing hums, idly scrapes a fingernail along the pavement, leaving behind a deep gash in the concrete. “Very well. _I_ am what your kind calls “the Spiral” or "the Distortion," although who can give something as simple as a _name_ to one such as I? _This_ is my domain. And _you_ may as well make yourself comfortable, John Watson, because you’ll be here for a _very_ long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to know what I listen to while I'm writing this? It's an [Aeolian (Wind) Harp drone noise generator](https://mynoise.net/NoiseMachines/aeolianDroneGenerator.php) that perfectly hits the sweet spot of melodious and uncanny for me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new door in Sherlock's mind palace.
> 
> It has a white printed sign on it that reads “Storage Room." It looks just like the one in the real Archive. When he finally grits his teeth and opens it, what he finds there is…distressing, for lack of a better word. Not because of the contents, but because of what they portend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, it's a Sherlock POV chapter! He's a tricky voice to get right - let me know how I did!

There's a new door in Sherlock’s mind palace. He didn’t put it there.

He’s learnt to distrust unfamiliar doors ever since the Distortion started meddling with the Archive a few months ago. Open the wrong one, you might spend a week or two pacing endless corridors of worn carpet, dingy wallpaper, and the occasional mirror. You might spend the rest of your life in there. People have.

His mind palace should be safe enough. Although. What power is more likely to infiltrate the very structure of his brain than one of twisting deceit?

The door has a white printed sign on it that reads “Storage Room." It looks just like the one in the real Archive. When he finally grits his teeth and opens it, what he finds there is…distressing, for lack of a better word. Not because of the contents, but because of what they portend.

———

It’s not uncommon for people to say of Sherlock, “He read me like a book!”

They don’t know how true that is.

When Sherlock meets someone for the first time, he deduces their immediately relevant information and files it away in his own mental version of the Archive. Periodically, he culls any data that he isn’t likely to need again. He builds a giant bonfire near the front desk and spends a satisfying hour incinerating the useless trivia that seems to exist for the sole purpose of cluttering his brain.

Mycroft hates this habit, especially since Sherlock always “forgets” to preserve the names and faces of major donors.  Sherlock takes a certain petty satisfaction in answering the occasional indignant, “Don’t you know who I _am_?” with, “No. And I don’t care.”

People who think that money and power make them worth remembering are hardly ever right.

Most of the files contain only a sheet or two. There’s really not much about people that’s worth remembering, when you get down to it. Details like birthdays and pet’s names only matter when you’re making small talk, and Sherlock abhors small talk.

A few people merit more space. Sherlock’s parents have a file box each, since they’re dead and he doesn’t trust Mycroft not to lie if he needs to fill in any gaps. Mycroft himself has nearly a whole shelf, mostly devoted to different ways of annoying him (e.g., forgetting the names and faces of Important People).

So when Sherlock opens the new Storage Room and finds it full of _John_ , he is (to put it mildly) disconcerted.

Of _course_ he’d noticed things about John. They’d spent the past twenty-four hours together, and he is — or was — a Professional Noticer. He just hadn’t been aware of how _much_ he was noticing.

There is an _entire file_ on John’s gait. With and without the limp. Running, meandering, striding purposefully, shifting his weight from foot to foot. There’s another on the way his hair and eye color change depending on the ambient lighting.

Glancing farther back into the room, Sherlock can see a few boxes stuffed with information gathered from his brief visit to John’s flat that he hasn’t even _begun_ to process yet. The man is a virtual fractal—the more Sherlock looks, the more there is to see.

This is bad. Isn’t it? His data-gathering instincts clearly require some re-calibration. Who knows how much storage space has been wasted on Dr. John Hamish Watson?

As he stands near the cot where he and John spent that first fretful night (and just _looking_ at it triggers a flood of sensory knowledge and memory), he can feel his Knowing eagerly reaching out its tendrils. Without trying, he now Knows the name of John’s first pet (a bulldog named Gladstone) and his birthday (7 July). _Bloody hell._

With an effort, he closes the channel of abundant and unbidden information. John had said _No snooping._ No matter how Sherlock looks at it, he can’t imagine him accepting “eldritch knowledge” as a plausible loophole.

He should burn it. Start a fire right here in the Storage Room and wipe his mind of all but the non-essentials. John is a doctor and (now) an archival assistant. He has survived contact with several of the dread powers. His eyes look dark grey in the Archives and vibrant blue in the sunlight.

 _Damn._ He knows he won’t burn any of it.

He exits the room, closing the door softly behind him. Lets himself surface.

———

It's been four hours and twenty-three minutes since John left to “get some air.” Sherlock drums his fingers on the desktop.

It is _intolerable_ being so acutely aware of another human being’s presence. Or absence, in this case. Is this what Mycroft is referring to during his grumbled warnings about “sentiment”? Sherlock understands now why Mycroft is so against the concept. It’s a terrible distraction.

It’s well past nightfall on this January evening. Unless John’s eaten anything since the chocolate biscuits he nicked from the lounge this afternoon, he’s probably hungry. _Sherlock’s_ even feeling a bit peckish by this point, for Christ’s sake. He unlocks his phone. Surely it couldn’t hurt to remind him of their plans.

**Panang curry, medium heat. Please. SH**

He waits. For the next forty-seven minutes. There’s no response.

(Not that Sherlock’s counting.)

He’s trying to focus on developing a theory about the emergence of a new power that seems to flit about in the corners of certain statements that aren’t easily attributed to any of the other entities. He wishes John were here so he could tell him about it and tolerate John’s stupid questions until one of them unlocked the next epiphany. He _knows_ the Work would progress faster if John were here.

And since when had he ever needed _anybody_ to talk to about his deductions and theories? This preference (he refuses to call it a dependence) isn’t just an anomaly—it borders on liability.

But as much as he tries to set it aside, the fact remains: John, in the space of a day, has become something of a necessity to Sherlock’s work. And by extension, to Sherlock.

_Fuck._

He texts again. **Require your assistance. Urgent. SH**

He doesn’t know if wanting a sounding board _strictly_ counts as urgent, but people tend to do what he wants when he uses words like that.

There continues to be no response, and Sherlock is starting to wonder if something is wrong. They hadn’t parted on bad terms, had they? No, John had seemed in a decent mood. A bit antsy, but otherwise fine.

Sherlock isn’t much given to self-examination—people either tolerate him for his usefulness or they piss off—but he doesn’t _remember_ doing or saying anything that would lead to John buggering off into the night without a word.

So. John has disappeared, just hours after antagonizing one entity and aligning himself with another. Sherlock reaches out with his mind, tries to Know where John has gone, and gets only an impression of a nauseating swirling blur for his trouble. It doesn’t take a world-class detective _or_ an avatar of an all-seeing entity to know there’s a problem.

The question is, what to do about it?

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you find the right door, you’ll be able to get back to London, you know,” she says after a minute, looking at him sidelong from under her lashes. “But you _do_ have to look for it.”
> 
> “And how likely am I to find it, exactly?”
> 
> “Not at all, I’m afraid.” She does the smiling thing again. “But you’re being _dreadfully_ dull. I could whip up something to make this more interesting for us. A minefield, perhaps, or a gigantic hound? Something to get you moving.” She brightens with a sudden thought. “I could make you think you had spiders crawling all over you. That would be fun _and_ thematically appropriate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get quite as far as I'd hoped on this chapter, but I figure a mini-update is better than nothing!

“You’re a lot less interesting than I thought you’d be,” the Spiral says petulantly. “I thought this was going to be fun, but you’re just _sitting_ there.” It’s still looming over John, who hasn’t moved from his bench. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

“Not here for your entertainment,” John grits out. “Besides, you make me seasick.”

The thing above him hums and its outline—at least the portion of it he can see from the corner of his eye—solidifies. 

“Better?” it asks. The windchimes and feedback in its voice fade into something smoother. Nearly human. John risks a glance.

The Spiral is now—more or less—a slender woman with long dark hair swept up off her neck. Its—her—outline blurs around the edges, but only if John looks closely. Her impossible talons are now fingernails of a perfectly reasonable length, painted red to match her lipstick.

She’s actually quite pretty, in a don’t-fuck-with-me sort of way. She reminds John of a piece of broken glass: eye-catching when the light hits it just right, but lined with sharp edges. Ready to slice open careless hands. She’s wearing a dark overcoat that looks a bit like Sherlock’s, and doesn’t _that_ make the area behind his sternum ache.

She smiles—or rather, she moves all the muscles that would normally result in a smile, but it doesn't look quite right. “I said,” she repeats, “is that better?”

“Er, yeah. I suppose,” John says. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I can do a lot of things.” She plops down on the bench next to him, stretches luxuriantly. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to be so…corporeal.”

“So, whose face is this, then? Just someone you made up?”

“Oh, no. This one found her way to me a long time ago.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “We’ve been… intertwined…ever since. I don’t like _being_ someone like this, but I suppose it does have some advantages.”

“Ah.” John has no idea what to say to this.

“Her name was Irene,” the Spiral offers. “I suppose mine is too, in a way. You can call me that, if it’s easier for you.”

“Wasn’t planning on calling you anything,” John says shortly.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she says with a pout. “It’s not like this is personal.”

“Oh, that’s just _fine_ , then. If it’s not personal, what is it?”

“A favor.” She doesn’t elaborate. The silence stretches out between them.

“If you find the right door, you’ll be able to get back to London, you know,” she says after a minute, looking at him sidelong from under her lashes. “But you _do_ have to look for it.”

“And how likely am I to find it, exactly?”

“Not at all, I’m afraid.” She does the smiling thing again. “But you’re being _dreadfully_ dull. I could whip up something to make this more interesting for us. A minefield, perhaps, or a gigantic hound? Something to get you moving.” She brightens with a sudden thought. “I could make you think you had spiders crawling all over you. That would be fun _and_ thematically appropriate.”

John shudders despite himself. “If all you need is for me to wander around looking for a door...”

“No, I'm actually liking the spiders more and more.”

But before “Irene” does anything, one of the nearby shop doors opens. It looks the same as all the others, but John suspects these doors only open if his captor is in the mood.

A slight man with dark hair and eyes strolls into the Spiral’s mad London, hands in his trouser pockets and an amiable grin on his face. The way he moves reminds John of a stoat, or maybe a shark - something lithe and fast and deadly.

“Johnny-boy!” he says with delight. “Glad you could make it.” He has a light Irish accent. Despite the smile, his eyes remain cold. Assessing. Shark eyes, to be sure.

“And who the hell are you supposed to be?” John asks tiredly. He's had enough of dramatic entrances to last him the next few lifetimes.

The man's grin broadens. “Me? _I'm_ Jim. But that's not what you're asking, is it?” He cocks his head, lets his gaze drift pointedly to the armrest of John's bench. John looks down and manages to only jump a _little_ at the mass of tiny spiders skittering along its length.

“Great. Brilliant. So you're what, king of the spiders?” As John watches, the creatures are busily filling in the space between armrest and seat with intricate patterns.

“Honey, you should _see_ me in a crown.” Jim winks. “No, I’m afraid that title goes to my patron. I'm merely… here to help. Just! Like! You!” This last is delivered with—dear God above—finger guns. John wonders if shooting him with _his_ gun would do anything. At the very least, it would make him feel better.

“So, you’re an avatar, then. Like—” he stops short.

“Why, he _does_ have a brain!” Jim crows. “Yes, Johnny-boy. Like our _dear_ friend Sherlock.”

John feels a white-hot urge to punch Sherlock’s name out of that smirking mouth. “What do you want?” he asks warily.

“From you? Nothing. Just keep wiggling on that shiny hook of yours.” Jim drops the grin and the shark is back. “From him? To _stop_.”

“What—” John clears his throat, starts again. “What do you mean, stop?”

“Well, just look at—at ‘Irene,’ and me,” Jim says, with a nod in her direction. She’s conjured a cocktail from somewhere, which she raises towards Jim in a mock toast.

“Her nature is to make you _doubt_ your perception, and my patron’s is to _avoid_ it.” Jim begins to pace, radiating restless energy.“And here comes brilliant, _stupid_ Sherlock, who’s nothing _but_ perception.” He shakes his head.

“Oh, it was fun to begin with. People are so _boring_ and easy to manipulate, after all. He gave me a challenge, seeing if I could avoid that Eye of his. But he got too good, and too close. And he keeps interfering.” John thinks he can detect real regret in the other man’s tone. “So. Playtime’s over.”

“I suppose I can see why your…bosses…wouldn’t get on,” John admits. “But what do _I_ have to do with any of this?” _Keep them talking. Gather information. Look for a way out._ It’s not much of a plan, but it’s all he’s got right now.

“I _said_ already, weren’t you listening?” Jim rolls his eyes. “Honestly, I don’t understand _what_ he sees in you. You’d think he was a little old for pets, but here we are.”

“Wait just a fucking minute—” John starts.

“Oh, did that _sting?_ ” Jim purses his lips in mock regret. “I suppose I should be nicer. I _am_ grateful, you know. Do you _know_ how long I’ve been looking for a chink in that bespoke armor? And then you just…fall from the bloody _sky_ and huzzah! It’s Christmas!”

“We’ve known each other for a _day_ ,” John protests. “I can’t possibly be...whatever you’re hoping. He thinks I’m out getting _takeaway_ , for God’s sake.”

This, of course, is when another shop door opens and a wild-eyed Sherlock stumbles through. He looks around frantically and when he spots John, his face does something that makes John’s heart twist in his chest. He looks _terrible_.

Jim’s smile is impossibly smug. “Don’t try to tell an avatar of the Web what motivates people, Johnny-boy. All I needed was the right string to pull—that’s you, darling—and now I get to watch him _dance_.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is what I want, Sherlock. I want you to stop meddling in my…well, _my_ meddling. I want you to leave well enough alone. I don’t care what little games you play with the others. But when you get one of the Web's statements, file it away in your useless little archive and _leave. It. Be._ ” These last words are delivered with chilling menace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter was a bear to write, but I think I know how things will go from here.

**_(Fifty-three minutes earlier)_ **

Sherlock storms out of the Institute in a sweep of Belstaff and blue cashmere. He hurries to the Embankment and stops, considering.

Sherlock doesn't go in much for gratitude. Gratitude means sharing the credit and he’s worked damn hard to get where he is. Right now, though, he’s feeling grateful for all the time he’s spent honing his observational skills so that he doesn’t have to rely solely on his patron. _Well done, past-Sherlock._

And yes, _fine_ , he’s also grateful for the great bloody all-seeing Eye that lets him know which way John’s gone so he doesn’t have to spend _too_ much time being clever. He strides off toward the Vauxhall Bridge at a rapid pace just shy of a run. He doesn’t want to run. That would mean things have gone horribly wrong and he might not get there in time. He’s not ready to consider that possibility yet.

He might not be able to See where John is now, but his basic understanding of the man and the blurred images that drip into his head like errant raindrops guide him along the path that John took earlier that evening. It’s full dark by now and the shadows between the streetlamps seem darker than usual. 

His reserve cracks at last and now he does break into a run. The lights of evening traffic judder madly up and down before his eyes as he pounds down the street, tracing an ex-army doctor’s aimless meanderings.

The trail goes unexpectedly cold at the exit of Bessborough Gardens. As far as the Eye is concerned, John vanished into thin air at the northwest corner of the park. Sherlock stops, sides heaving. Takes stock.

John had said he was going to pick up Indian. He still isn’t used to walking long distances, so he’d likely been headed that way at this point in his walk. Sherlock pulls out his phone, brings up a list of nearby restaurants. _There we are._ Just across the street and up a bit. He heads in that direction.

John isn’t at the restaurant, but Sherlock expected that. He knew John hadn’t made it that far. No, he’s standing here and looking at the upper third of the restaurant’s door handle because what the _hell_ else is he going to do? As far as leads go, this is the best he’s got at the moment. _Damn it all._ He walks inside.

It’s a perfectly normal Indian restaurant—counter at the front for picking up takeaway, tables scattered around the room behind it. Tall vases of lotus pods lurk in the corners and brightly colored prints of Shiva and Durga and Kali gaze at him from burgundy walls.

And then Sherlock sees it. A door at the back, near the lavatories. An ordinary wooden door with a plain white sign on it that says “Storage Room.”

It’s the the kind of door you might see in any restaurant, but it's _identical_ to the one in the Archive. From his mind palace. And Sherlock just _knows_ that there’s more behind it than mops and carpet sweepers. There has to be.

A young woman in a yellow sari is approaching him and smiling, but he’s already on the move. He brushes past her without apology and makes for the door. He throws it open and—

—And he’s in an unfamiliar square, never mind that he knows every fucking _inch_ of this bloody city. But that doesn’t matter, because John is sitting on a bench and looking at him with such shock and tentative hope that Sherlock wants to invent a time travel machine just so he can go back and punch every single person in John’s life that made him look that way now, like he’s flabbergasted that someone’s _actually_ come to find him. To help.

A pretty brunette is sitting next to John with her arm casually draped over the back of the bench behind him. It's an intimate position and Sherlock feels a stab of jealous possessiveness that's only placated by John's obvious discomfort.

And then a sardonic Irish voice comes from behind him. “ _There_ he is! I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t make it, Sherlock. What would I do with your pet soldier then?”

Sherlock whirls to see a man about his own age in a dark suit. As the man saunters towards him, the streetlights catch thin silver filaments woven through through the fabric in a subtle web pattern. Sherlock rolls his eyes. It’s as bad as Mycroft’s eye umbrella. These avatars think they’re _so_ clever.

“You have the advantage of me,” he says stiffly.

The man beams at this, dark eyes twinkling. “Jim. ‘You have the advantage of me, _Jim_.’ You’re a clever one! I do indeed.”

He’s uncomfortably close to Sherlock by now, deliberately invading his personal space. The height difference doesn’t seem to faze him at all. He looks up at Sherlock and smirks. “So, my clever friend, can you guess why you’re here? Why I’ve arranged this little _tete-a-tete?_ ”

Sherlock looks over at John. “All right?” John nods. He’s still looking a bit shocky but visibly trying to pull himself together. Sherlock will give him the time he needs. He has a hunch that they’re both going to need their wits for whatever comes next.

Sherlock glares down at the shorter man—Jim. He won’t give this madman the satisfaction of backing away. “You’re an agent of the Web,” he bites out. “Whatever you want, it’s important enough that you’ve enlisted the help of another entitity. From the look of this place, likely the Spiral.” He glances over to the woman sitting on the bench next to John. She wiggles the fingers of her free hand at him in a casual wave.

He continues. “You needed to get me where the Eye couldn’t see, but you knew I wouldn’t go willingly. So you kidnapped John.”

As Sherlock speaks, he’s trying to inconspicuously take in his surroundings, looking for tactical advantages. He can’t see any at the moment, but he’s also more distracted by John’s presence than he’d like to admit. 

But Jim is talking. “So far, so obvious.” He sighs. “I _know_ you’re better than that, Sherlock, so stop _boring_ me.”

“What. Do. You. _Want?_ ”

Jim spreads his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Just to talk. For now.”

“You could have called. The Institute’s in the phone book.”

“Where’s the fun in _that?”_ Jim pouts. “You’ll have to forgive me, I _do_ love a bit of drama. Your brother and I have that in common.” His voice changes. Hardens. So do his eyes.

“This is what I want, Sherlock. I want you to stop meddling in my…well, _my_ meddling. I want you to leave well enough alone. I don’t care what little games you play with the others. But when you get one of the Web's statements, file it away in your useless little archive and _leave. It. Be_.” These last words are delivered with chilling menace.

“And if I don’t?” Sherlock asks, still watching John out of the corner of his eye. He's sitting unnaturally still and it bothers Sherlock. He’s hardly moved at all since Sherlock’s arrival. Something’s not right and Sherlock would bet his Belstaff that it has to do with the woman sitting next to him.

Jim frowns. “Don’t be like that. I was having so much _fun_ seeing you send all the other Powers scrambling! You of all people know how _boring_ people can be and what a relief it is when you find someone actually _entertaining_. Don’t ruin things. You _and_ your pet doctor can live to archive another day and _I_ get to watch you make life interesting for everyone who’s not me.”

“And if I don’t agree to leave it alone?” Sherlock repeats.

“Irene, darling?” Jim calls out without taking his eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock glances over. The woman waves at them again with her free hand, the one that’s not behind John. Her fingers now resemble spindly knives: cruelly pointed and entirely inhuman.

“In that case, Irene here will reach inside your pet and cut his heart to ribbons before you can blink. That’s what happens. And then I leave and let you wander around here alone …well, forever.” Jim smiles beatifically, spreads his hands. “You see? Not much of a choice.”

“Leaving you free to manipulate and snare whoever you please.”

“Honestly, it’s like you’re not even _listening_. The Web will continue to function regardless of your petty interference. I’m doing you a favor and giving you and Johnny-boy the chance to get out of the way before you get…snared…yourself.”

John is looking at Sherlock with wide eyes, clearly wondering what he’s got planned. Sherlock’s wondering that himself. Risking John is not an option. Neither is voluntarily limiting the scope of his investigations. He’s not in the habit of dropping a line of inquiry because it might piss off the wrong people, and he’s not about to start now.

Jim cocks his head as if reading Sherlock’s thoughts. “Y’know what? I’m sensing some…inner conflict. Maybe Irene could do a little _minor_ gouging, just to hear what John sounds like when you open him up.”

“No!” Sherlock blurts. _Shit, rather tipped his hand there_. “No,” he repeats, attempting a more level tone. “That won't be necessary. I'll leave you and your lot alone. I promise.”

Jim makes a _moue_. “I'm afraid that just won't do anymore, Sherlock. Now that we’ve met, I’ve seen what you are. I know your type, you won't stop until someone dies. Maybe not even then, but I suppose we'll just have to see, won't we?” He glances over at Irene.

This is it. He's out of options. “Then I'll stay here where you can keep an eye on me,” he says desperately. “Let John go, he's not got anything to do with this.”

Jim smiles a predatory smile and Sherlock senses that he's been out-maneuvered.“Well, there's an idea,” Jim croons. “First sensible one you've had all night.” He snaps his fingers and Irene stretches languidly, removing her hand from behind John's back and placing it demurely in her lap in the process. Her razor-sharp fingertips don't change back _quite_ quickly enough and they effortlessly slice through the fabric covering her thigh. She sees him looking and winks. He shudders.

John is still looking shell-shocked. Jim rolls his eyes. “Take a hint, Johnny-boy, and get out while you can. You're boring us, isn't that right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks at John, this small brave _fascinating_ man who's careened into his life so unexpectedly, and his throat closes up. What can he possibly say that will mean anything close to what he feels? He hopes that his expression communicates at least a fraction of it.

John meets his eyes, his own face unreadable. He nods decisively, puts his hands on his knees, levers himself to his feet. He turns to the door that's appeared next to the bench, puts his hand on the knob. He looks back and meet Sherlock’s eyes with an expression Sherlock can only describe as determined tenderness, or maybe tender determination. It’s set and soft at the same time, and it breaks Sherlock’s heart a little. Then his face hardens so abruptly Sherlock wonders if he imagined it. He hopes not.

“You avatars are all alike,” John says with weary scorn, raising his voice to include Jim and Irene without looking away from Sherlock. “You get a little bit of power, a hint of what's possible, and then there's _nothing_ you wouldn't do for those precious Entities of yours.” His voice and hands are as steady as his gaze. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to lead you on a wild goose hunt. Be seeing you.” John turns back to the door, squares his shoulders, and then he's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are a fellow inhabitant of the tiny Venn diagram intersection between TMA fans and Johnlock shippers - thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> If you are unfamiliar with either fandom and decided to give this story a try anyway, thanks for taking a chance on something new! 
> 
> You can find _The Magnus Archives_ on pretty much any podcast app and I _do_ suggest starting from the beginning.
> 
> Thanks to Ariane DeVere for her excellent [Sherlock transcripts](https://arianedevere.livejournal.com).


End file.
